I
The old House of Heritage stood just below the downs, in the few meadows
that were all that was left of a great estate. The house itself was of
stone, very firmly and gravely built; and roofed with thin slabs of
stone, small at the roof-ridge, and increasing in size towards the
eaves. Inside, there were a few low panelled rooms opening on a large
central hall; there was little furniture, and that of a sturdy and solid
kind--but the house needed nothing else, and had all the beauty that
came of a simple austerity.
Old Mistress Alison, who abode there, was aged and poor. She had but
one house-servant, a serious and honest maid, whose only pride was to
keep the place sweet, and save her mistress from all care. But Mistress
Alison was not to be dismayed by poverty; she was a tranquil and loving
woman, who had never married; but who, as if to compensate her for the
absence of nearer ties, had a simple and wholesome love of all created
things. She was infirm now, but was quite content, when it was fine, to
sit for long hours idle for very love, and look about her with a
peaceful and smiling air; she prayed much, or rather held a sweet
converse in her heart with God; she thought little of her latter end,
which she knew could not be long delayed, but was content to leave it in
the hands of the Father, sure that He, who had made the world so
beautiful and so full of love, would comfort her when she came to enter
in at the dark gate.
There was also an old and silent man who looked after the cattle and
the few hens that the household kept; at the back of the house was a
thatched timbered grange, where he laid his tools; but he spent his time
mostly in the garden, which sloped down to the fishpond, and was all
bordered with box; here was a pleasant homely scent, on hot days, of the
good herbs that shed their rich smell in the sun; and here the flies,
that sate in the leaves, would buzz at the sound of a footfall, and then
be still again, cleaning their hands together in their busy manner.
The only other member of the quiet household was the boy Paul, who was
distantly akin to Mistress Alison. He had neither father nor mother, and
had lived at Heritage all of his life that he could remember; he was a
slender, serious boy, with delicate features, and large grey eyes that
looked as if they held a secret; but if they had, it was a secret of his
forefathers; for the boy had led a most quiet and innocent life; he had
been taught to read in a fashion, but he had no schooling; sometimes a
neighbouring goodwife would say to Mistress Alison that the boy should
be sent to school, and Mistress Alison would open her peaceful eyes and
say, "Nay, Paul is not like other boys--he would get all the hurt and
none of the good of school; when there is work for him he will do
it--but I am not for making all toil alike. Paul shall grow up like the
lilies of the field. God made not all things to be busy." And the
goodwife would shake her head and wonder; for it was not easy to answer
Mistress Alison, who indeed was often right in the end.
So Paul grew up as he would; sometimes he would help the old gardener,
when there was work to be done; for he loved to serve others, and was
content with toil if it was sweetened with love; but often he rambled by
himself for hours together; he cared little for company, because the
earth was to him full of wonder and of sweet sights and sounds. He loved
to climb the down, and lie feasting his eyes on the rich plain, spread
out like a map; the farms in their closes, the villages from which went
up the smoke at evening, the distant blue hills, like the hills of
heaven, the winding river, and the lake that lay in the winter twilight
like a shield of silver. He loved to see the sun flash on the windows of
the houses so distant that they could not themselves be seen, but only
sparkled like stars. He loved to loiter on the edge of the steep hanging
woods in summer, to listen to the humming of the flies deep in the
brake, and to catch a sight of lonely flowers; he loved the scent of the
wind blowing softly out of the copse, and he wondered what the trees
said to each other, when they stood still and happy in the heat of
midday. He loved, too, the silent night, full of stars, when the wood
that topped the hill lay black against the sky. The whole world seemed
to him to be full of a mysterious and beautiful life of which he could
never quite catch the secret; these innocent flowers, these dreaming
trees seemed, as it were, to hold him smiling at arm's length, while
they guarded their joy from him. The birds and the beasts seemed to him
to have less of this quiet joy, for they were fearful and careful,
working hard to find a living, and dreading the sight of man; but
sometimes in the fragrant eventide the nightingale would say a little of
what was in her heart. "Yes," Paul would say to himself, "it is like
that."
One other chief delight the boy had; he knew the magic of sound, which
spoke to his heart in a way that it speaks to but few; the sounds of the
earth gave up their sweets to him; the musical fluting of owls, the
liquid notes of the cuckoo, the thin pipe of dancing flies, the mournful
creaking of the cider-press, the horn of the oxherd wound far off on the
hill, the tinkling of sheep-bells--of all these he knew the notes; and
not only these, but the rhythmical swing of the scythes sweeping
through the grass, the flails heard through the hot air from the barn,
the clinking of the anvil in the village forge, the bubble of the stream
through the weir--all these had a tale to tell him. Sometimes, for days
together, he would hum to himself a few notes that pleased him by their
sweet cadence, and he would string together some simple words to them,
and sing them to himself with gentle content. The song of the reapers on
the upland, or the rude chanting in the little church had a magical
charm for him; and Mistress Alison would hear the boy, in his room
overhead, singing softly to himself for very gladness of heart, like a
little bird of the dawn, or tapping out some tripping beat of time; when
she would wonder and speak to God of what was in her heart.
As Paul grew older--he was now about sixteen--a change came slowly over
his mind; he began to have moods of a silent discontent, a longing for
something far away, a desire of he knew not what. His old dreams began
to fade, though they visited him from time to time; but he began to care
less for the silent beautiful life of the earth, and to take more
thought of men. He had never felt much about himself before; but one
day, lying beside a woodland pool at the feet of the down, he caught a
sight of his own face; and when he smiled at it, it seemed to smile back
at him; he began to wonder what the world was like, and what all the
busy people that lived therein said and thought; he began to wish to
have a friend, that he might tell him what was in his heart--and yet he
knew not what it was that he would say. He began, too, to wonder how
people regarded him--the people who had before been but to him a distant
part of the shows of the world. Once he came in upon Mistress Alison,
who sate talking with a gossip of hers; when he entered, there was a
sudden silence, and a glance passed between the two; and Paul divined
that they had been speaking of himself, and desired to know what they
had said.
One day the old gardener, in a more talkative mood than was his wont,
told him a tale of one who had visited the Wishing Well that lay a few
miles away, and, praying for riches, had found the next day, in digging,
an old urn of pottery, full of ancient coins. Paul was very urgent to
know about the well, and the old man told him that it must be visited at
noonday and alone. That he that would have his wish must throw a gift
into the water, and drink of the well, and then, turning to the sun,
must wish his wish aloud. Paul asked him many more questions, but the
old man would say no more. So Paul determined that he would visit the
place for himself.
The next day he set off. He took with him one of his few possessions, a
little silver coin that a parson hard by had given him. He went his way
quickly among the pleasant fields, making towards the great bulk of
Blackdown beacon, where the hills swelled up into a steep bluff, with a
white road, cut in the chalk, winding steeply up their green smooth
sides. It was a fresh morning with a few white clouds racing merrily
overhead, the shadows of which fell every now and then upon the down and
ran swiftly over it, like a flood of shade leaping down the sides. There
were few people to be seen anywhere; the fields were full of grass, with
large daisies and high red sorrel. By midday he was beneath the front of
Blackdown, and here he asked at a cottage of a good-natured woman, that
was bustling in and out, the way to the well. She answered him very
kindly and described the path--it was not many yards away--and then
asked where he came from, saying briskly, "And what would you wish for?
I should have thought you had all you could desire." "Why, I hardly
know;" said Paul smiling. "It seems that I desire a thousand things, and
can scarcely give a name to one." "That is ever the way," said the
woman, "but the day will come when you will be content with one." Paul
did not understand what she meant, but thanked her and went on his way;
and wondered that she stood so long looking after him.
At last he came to the spring. It was a pool in a field, ringed round by
alders. Paul thought he had never seen a fairer place. There grew a
number of great kingcups round the brim, with their flowers like
glistening gold, and with cool thick stalks and fresh leaves. Inside the
ring of flowers the pool looked strangely deep and black; but looking
into it you could see the sand leaping at the bottom in three or four
cones; and to the left the water bubbled away in a channel covered with
water-plants. Paul could see that there was an abundance of little
things at the bottom, half covered with sand--coins, flowers, even
little jars--which he knew to be the gifts of wishers. So he flung his
own coin in the pool, and saw it slide hither and thither, glancing in
the light, till it settled at the dark bottom. Then he dipped and drank,
turned to the sun, and closing his eyes, said out loud, "Give me what I
desire." And this he repeated three times, to be sure that he was heard.
Then he opened his eyes again, and for a moment the place looked
different, with a strange grey light. But there was no answer to his
prayer in heaven or earth, and the very sky seemed to wear a quiet
smile.
Paul waited a little, half expecting some answer; but presently he
turned his back upon the pool and walked slowly away; the down lay on
one side of him, looking solemn and dark over the trees which grew very
plentifully; Paul thought that he would like to walk upon the down; so
he went up a little leafy lane that seemed to lead to it. Suddenly, as
he passed a small thicket, a voice hailed him; it was a rich and
cheerful voice, and it came from under the trees. He turned in the
direction of the voice, which seemed to be but a few yards off, and saw,
sitting on a green bank under the shade, two figures. One was a man of
middle age, dressed lightly as though for travelling, and Paul thought
somewhat fantastically. His hat had a flower stuck in the band. But Paul
thought little of the dress, because the face of the man attracted him;
he was sunburnt and strong-looking, and Paul at first thought he must be
a soldier; he had a short beard, and his hair was grown rather long; his
face was deeply lined, but there was something wonderfully good-natured,
friendly, and kind about his whole expression. He was smiling, and his
smile showed small white teeth; and Paul felt in a moment that he could
trust him, and that the man was friendly disposed to himself and all the
world; friendly, not in a servile way, as one who wished to please, but
in a sort of prodigal, royal way, as one who had great gifts to bestow,
and was liberal of them, and looked to be made welcome. The other
figure was that of a boy rather older than himself, with a merry ugly
face, who in looking at Paul, seemed yet to keep a sidelong and
deferential glance at the older man, as though admiring him, and
desiring to do as he did in all things.
"Where go you, pretty boy, alone in the noontide?" said the man.
Paul stopped and listened, and for a moment could not answer. Then he
said, "I am going to the down, sir, and I have been"--he hesitated for a
moment--"I have been to the Wishing Well."
"The Wishing Well?" said the man gravely. "I did not know there was one
hereabouts. I thought that every one in this happy valley had been too
well content--and what did you wish for, if I may ask?"
Paul was silent and grew red; and then he said, "Oh, just for my heart's
desire."
"That is either a very cautious or a very beautiful answer," said the
man, "and it gives me a lesson in manners; but will you not sit a little
with us in the shade?--and you shall hear a concert of music such as I
dare say you shall hardly hear out of France or Italy. Do you practise
music, child, the divine gift?"
"I love it a little," said Paul, "but I have no skill."
"Yet you look to me like one who might have skill," said the man; "you
have the air of it--you look as though you listened, and as though you
dreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack," he said, turning to his boy, "what
shall we give our friend?--shall he have the 'Song of the Rose' first?"
The boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out of his doublet, and
put it to his lips; and the man reached out his hand and took up a small
lute which lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warning finger to
the boy. "Remember," he said, "that you come in at the fifth chord,
together with the voice--not before." He struck four simple chords on
the lute, very gently, and with a sort of dainty preciseness; and then
at the same moment the little pipe and his own voice began; the pipe
played a simple descant in quicker time, with two notes to each note of
the song, and the man in a brisk and simple way, as it were at the edge
of his lips, sang a very sweet little country song, in a quiet homely
measure.
There seemed to Paul to be nothing short of magic about it. There was a
beautiful restraint about the voice, which gave him a sense both of
power and feeling held back; but it brought before him a sudden picture
of a garden, and the sweet life of the flowers and little trees, taking
what came, sunshine and rain, and just living and smiling, breathing
fragrant breath from morning to night, and sleeping a light sleep till
they should waken to another tranquil day. He listened as if
spellbound. There were but three verses, and though he could not
remember the words, it seemed as though the rose spoke and told her
dreams.
He could have listened for ever; but the voice made a sudden stop, not
prolonging the last note, but keeping very closely to the time; the pipe
played a little run, like an echo of the song, the man struck a brisk
chord on the lute--and all was over. "Bravely played, Jack!" said the
singer; "no musician could have played it better. You remembered what I
told you, to keep each note separate, and have no gliding. This song
must trip from beginning to end, like a brisk bird that hops on the
grass." Then he turned to Paul and, with a smile, said, "Reverend sir,
how does my song please you?"
"I never heard anything more beautiful," said Paul simply. "I cannot say
it, but it was like a door opened;" and he looked at the minstrel with
intent eyes;--"may I hear it again?" "Boy," said the singer gravely, "I
had rather have such a look as you gave me during the song than a golden
crown. You will not understand what I say, but you paid me the homage of
the pure heart, the best reward that the minstrel desires."
Then he conferred with the other boy in a low tone, and struck a very
sad yet strong chord upon his lute; and then, with a grave face, he sang
what to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had done with
mortal things, and whose death seemed more a triumph than a sorrow. When
he had sung the first verse, the pipe came softly and sadly in, like the
voice of grief that could not be controlled, the weeping of those on
whom lay the shadow of loss. To Paul, in a dim way,--for he was but a
child--the song seemed the voice of the world, lamenting its noblest,
yet triumphing in their greatness, and desirous to follow in their
steps. It brought before him all the natural sorrows of death, the call
to quit the sweet and pleasant things of the world--a call that could
not be denied, and that was in itself indeed stronger and even sweeter
than the delights which it bade its listeners leave. And Paul seemed to
walk in some stately procession of men far off and ancient, who followed
a great king to the grave, and whose hearts were too full of wonder to
think yet what they had lost. It was an uplifting sadness; and when the
sterner strain came to an end, Paul said very quietly, putting into
words the thoughts of his full heart, "I did not think that death could
be so beautiful." And the minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes
were full of tears.
Then all at once the minstrel struck the lute swiftly and largely, and
sang a song of those that march to victory, not elated nor excited, but
strong to dare and to do; and Paul felt his heart beat within him, and
he longed to be of the company. After he had sung this to an end, there
was a silence, and the minstrel said to Paul, yet as though half
speaking to himself, "There, my son, I have given you a specimen of my
art; and I think from your look that you might be of the number of those
that make these rich jewels that men call songs; and should you try to
do so, be mindful of these two things: let them be perfect first. You
will make many that are not perfect. In some the soul will be wanting;
in others the body, in a manner of speaking, will be amiss; for they are
living things, these songs, and he that makes them is a kind of god.
Well, if you cannot mend one, throw it aside and think no more of it. Do
not save it because it has some gracious touch, for in this are the
masters of the craft different from the mere makers of songs. The master
will have nothing but what is perfect within and without, while the
lesser craftsman will save a poor song for the sake of a fine line or
phrase.
"And next, you must do it for the love of your art, and not for the
praise it wins you. That is a poisoned wine, of which if you drink, you
will never know the pure and high tranquillity of spirit that befits a
master. The master may be discouraged and troubled oft, but he must have
in his soul a blessed peace, and know the worth and beauty of what he
does; for there is nothing nobler than to make beautiful things, and to
enlighten the generous heart. Fighting is a fair trade, and though it is
noble in much, yet its end is to destroy; but the master of song mars
nought, but makes joy;--and that is the end of my sermon for the time.
And now," he added briskly, "I must be going, for I have far to fare;
but I shall pass by this way again, and shall inquire of your welfare;
tell me your name and where you live." So Paul told him, and then added
timidly enough that he would fain know how to begin to practise his art.
"Silence!" said the minstrel, rather fiercely; "that is an evil and
timorous thought. If you are worthy, you will find the way." And so in
the hot afternoon he said farewell, and walked lightly off. And Paul
stood in wonder and hope, and saw the two figures leave the flat, take
to the down, and wind up the steep road, ever growing smaller, till they
topped the ridge, where they seemed to stand a moment larger than human;
and presently they were lost from view.
So Paul made his way home; and when he pushed the gate of Heritage open,
he wondered to think that he could recollect nothing of the road he had
traversed. He went up to the house and entered the hall. There sate
Mistress Alison, reading in a little book. She closed it as he came in,
and looked at him with a smile. Paul went up to her and said, "Mother"
(so he was used to call her), "I have heard songs to-day such as I never
dreamt of, and I pray you to let me learn the art of making music; I
must be a minstrel." "'Must' is a grave word, dear heart," said Mistress
Alison, looking somewhat serious; "but let me hear your story first."
So Paul told of his meeting with the minstrel. Mistress Alison sate
musing a long time, smiling when she met Paul's eye, till he said at
last, "Will you not speak, mother?" "I know," she said at last, "whom
you have met, dear child--that is Mark, the great minstrel. He travels
about the land, for he is a restless man, though the king himself would
have him dwell in his court, and make music for him. Yet I have looked
for this day, though it has come when I did not expect it. And now I
must tell you a story, Paul, in my turn. Many years ago there was a boy
like you, and he loved music too and the making of songs, and he grew to
great skill therein. But it was at last his ruin, for he got to love
riotous company and feasting too well; and so his skill forsook him, as
it does those that live not cleanly and nobly. And he married a young
wife, having won her by his songs, and a child was born to them. But the
minstrel fell sick and presently died, and his last prayer was that his
son might not know the temptation of song. And his wife lingered a
little, but she soon pined away, for her heart was broken within her;
and she too died. And now, Paul, listen, for the truth must be told--you
are that child, the son of sorrow and tears. And here you have lived
with me all your life; but because the tale was a sad one, I have
forborne to tell it you. I have waited and wondered to see whether the
gift of the father is given to the son; and sometimes I have thought it
might be yours, and sometimes I have doubted. And now, child, we will
talk of this no more to-day, for it is ill to decide in haste. Think
well over what I have said, and see if it makes a difference in your
wishes. I have told you all the tale."
Now the story that Mistress Alison had told him dwelt very much in
Paul's mind that night; but it seemed to him strange and far off, and he
did not doubt what the end should be. It was as though the sight of the
minstrel, his songs and words, had opened a window in his mind, and that
he saw out of it a strange and enchanted country, of woods and streams,
with a light of evening over it, bounded by far-off hills, all blue and
faint, among which some beautiful thing was hidden for him to find; it
seemed to call him softly to come; the trees smiled upon him, the voice
of the streams bade him make haste--it all waited for him, like a
country waiting for its lord to come and take possession.
Then it seemed to him that his soul slipped like a bird from the window,
and rising in the air over that magical land, beat its wings softly in
the pale heaven; and then like a dove that knows, by some inborn
mysterious art, which way its path lies, his spirit paused upon the
breeze, and then sailed out across the tree-tops. Whither? Paul knew
not. And so at last he slipped into a quiet sleep.
He woke in the morning all of a sudden, with a kind of tranquil joy and
purpose; and when he was dressed, and gone into the hall, he found
Mistress Alison sitting in her chair beside the table laid for their
meal. She was silent and looked troubled, and Paul went up softly to
her, and kissed her and said, "I have chosen." She did not need to ask
him what he had chosen, but put her arm about him and said, "Then, dear
Paul, be content--and we will have one more day together, the last of
the old days; and to-morrow shall the new life begin."
So the two passed a long and quiet day together. For to the wise and
loving-hearted woman this was the last of sweet days, and her soul went
out to the past with a great hunger of love; but she stilled it as was
her wont, saying to herself that this dear passage of life had hitherto
only been like the clear trickling of a woodland spring, while the love
of the Father's heart was as it were a great river of love marching
softly to a wide sea, on which river the very world itself floated like
a flower-bloom between widening banks.
And indeed if any had watched them that day, it would have seemed that
she was the serener; for the thought of the life that lay before him
worked like wine in the heart of Paul, and he could only by an effort
bring himself back to loving looks and offices of tenderness. They spent
the whole day together, for the most part in a peaceful silence; and at
last the sun went down, and a cool breeze came up out of the west, laden
with scent from miles and miles of grass and flowers, which seemed to
bear with it the fragrant breath of myriads of sweet living things.
Then they ate together what was the last meal they were to take thus
alone. And at last Mistress Alison would have Paul go to rest. And so
she took his hand in hers, and said, "Dear child, the good years are
over now; but you will not forget them; only lean upon the Father, for
He is very strong; and remember that though the voice of melody is
sweet, yet the loving heart is deeper yet." And then Paul suddenly broke
out into a passion of weeping, and kissed his old friend on hand and
cheek and lips; and then he burst away, ashamed, if the truth be told,
that his love was not deeper than he found it to be.
He slept a light sleep that night, his head pillowed on his hand, with
many strange dreams ranging through his head. Among other fancies, some
sweet, some dark, he heard a delicate passage of melody played, it
seemed to him, by three silver-sounding flutes, so delicate that he
could hardly contain himself for gladness; but among his sadder dreams
was one of a little man habited like a minstrel who played an ugly
enchanted kind of melody on a stringed lute, and smiled a treacherous
smile at him; Paul woke in a sort of fever of the spirit; and rising
from his bed, felt the floor cool to his feet, and drew his curtain
aside; in a tender radiance of dawn he saw the barn, deep in shadow, in
the little garden; and over them a little wood-end that he knew well by
day--a simple place enough--but now it had a sort of magical dreaming
air; the mist lay softly about it like the breath of sleep; and the
trees, stretching wistfully their leafy arms, seemed to him to be full
of silent prayer, or to be hiding within them some divine secret that
might not be shown to mortal eyes. He looked long at this; and presently
went back to his bed, and shivered in a delicious warmth, while outside,
very gradually, came the peaceful stir of morning. A bird or two fluted
drowsily in the bushes; then another further away would join his slender
song; a cock crew cheerily in a distant grange, and soon it was broad
day. Presently the house began to be softly astir; and the faint
fragrance of an early kindled fire of wood stole into the room. Then
worn out by his long vigil he fell asleep again; and soon waking, knew
it to be later than was his wont, and dressed with haste. He came down,
and heard voices in the hall; he went in, and there saw Mistress Alison
in her chair; and on the hearth, talking gaily and cheerily, stood Mark
the minstrel. They made a pause when he came in. Mark extended his hand,
which Paul took with a kind of reverence. Then Mistress Alison, with her
sweet old smile, said to Paul, "So you made a pilgrimage to the Well of
the Heart's Desire, dear Paul? Well, you have your wish, and very soon;
for here is a master for you, if you will serve him." "Not a light
service, Paul," said Mark gravely, "but a true one. I can take you with
me when you may go, for my boy Jack is fallen sick with a stroke of the
sun, and must bide at home awhile." They looked at Paul, to see what he
would say. "Oh, I will go gladly," he said, "if I may." And then he
felt he had not spoken lovingly; so he kissed Mistress Alison, who
smiled, but somewhat sadly, and said, "Yes, Paul--I understand."
So when the meal was over, Paul's small baggage was made ready, and he
kissed Mistress Alison--and then she said to Mark with a sudden look,
"You will take care of him?" "Oh, he shall be safe with me," said Mark,
"and if he be apt and faithful, he shall learn his trade, as few can
learn it." And then Paul said his good-bye, and walked away with Mark;
and his heart was so full of gladness that he stepped out lightly and
blithely, and hardly looked back. But at the turn of the road he
stopped, while Mark seemed to consider him gravely. The three that were
to abide, Mistress Alison, and the maid, and the old gardener, stood at
the door and waved their hands; the old house seemed to look fondly out
of its windows at him, as though it had a heart; and the very trees
seemed to wave him a soft farewell. Paul waved his hand too, and a tear
came into his eyes; but he was eager to be gone; and indeed, in his
heart, he felt almost jealous of even the gentle grasp of his home upon
his heart. And so Mark and Paul set out for the south.